She hesitates, and I close my eyes, battling my warring desires for domination and surrender. I'm intoxicated enough to admit I want her hands on me. I want her softness, even if it is false. I can think of no punishment worse than her touching me as if it is driven by her own free will. But as I suspected, she is not caving. And I will have no choice but to follow through and show her what a monster truly looks like.
With a growl, I begin to shove my dick back into the confines of my trousers when she reaches out to stop me.
"Wait!" she begs. "Please."
"Please what?" I ask gruffly.
"I'll do it."
Her voice is barely audible, and time seems to suspend as I remain there, waiting for her to follow through. Several long moments pass before she wraps a hesitant hand around my shaft.
"Your mouth." My own voice is hoarse, and I force my eyes shut even though I can't see her, and she can't see me.
She is feeling her way around me, uncertain as she brings the head of my straining cock to her lips. My breath hisses between my teeth as her tongue darts out and touches the rigid flesh. It's too soft. Too slow. I want to grab her by the head and force it down her throat. But I can't seem to move, paralyzed by the sensation of her drawing me into her mouth.
A groan rumbles from my chest as I cup the back of her skull and inch my cock as deep as she can take me. She starts to cough, and I push deeper until she’s clawing at my legs and gasping for air. A brief reprieve is all I intend to grant her as I ease away to let her catch her breath, but my wife is determined, pulling me in again, her mouth warm velvet against my hardness. Already, my balls are drawing tight against my body as the urge to release overwhelms me.
I don't realize I'm petting her hair until she leans into my touch.
It's a trick. It's all a trick. Every soft sound that spills from her lips as she takes me inside. The sweet perfume of her own arousal between her thighs. She would never admit that she enjoys the perverseness of this dynamic between us. That it makes her wet to kneel before me and follow my commands. Because that couldn’t possibly be true. She's trying to lure me in again. That's the only logical explanation for this insanity.
"That's enough," I bite out, trying to pull my dick free from her lips.
"No!" She clings to me, pleading. "I'll do better. Please, just let me try."
It seems I have found a way to motivate her after all. And it fucking grates at me that she will degrade herself so willingly to save her precious family. But those thoughts drift away the moment she pulls me back in, lashing at me with her tongue as she works my shaft.
I grip her hair, pivoting my hips forward as I fight my own will to make this stop. But I can't. I can't stop thrusting into her warmth as her nails dig into my thighs.
I don't know how long it goes on for. I just know that my baser desires take over at some point, and I am splitting her jaw apart as I use her mouth like I promised. She takes it. She takes every inch of it and doesn't once protest, even when she’s coughing and sputtering around me.
When my muscles begin to tremble, and the tension is at a breaking point, I yank myself free of her lips at the last second, spilling my come over her naked breasts. My chest heaves from the force of my release, and the hammering pulse in my throat leaves me stumbling back from the venomous creature beneath me before I cave in to another desire. Like kissing her. Touching her. Treating her with a gentleness she could never deserve.
"Santiago?" She calls after me as I head for the door, tucking my cock back into my trousers as I go. "You aren't going to do anything to them, are you? I did what you wanted."
Silence is my only response.
10
Ivy
“It’s better than the cellar,” I tell myself for the hundredth time. The thousandth.
I get up, go into the bathroom. It’s the only place with electricity and a light bulb. There’s electricity in my room too but no bulbs in the few light fixtures. That was the case since I first came here. It’s not a part of my punishment. That, I know, is because Santiago doesn’t like people looking at him.
I think about what I know about my husband. Not much. Not really. Yet he and I are tied together, locked in this strange, dark place acting out this strange, dark story.
The light is dim, but it’s better than the three candles I’m allotted daily. I think it’s daily at least. I have no idea what day it is or how much time has passed, but it feels like weeks. I have no way to mark the time apart from the meals Antonia brings in or the visits from my husband although he isn’t consistent. The light from the window that I’d been allowed for so short a time has been closed up again, so I don’t even have the luxury of the small square I used to have when I first came here.
No, when I first was brought here. I never came willingly.
In the dim light of the bulb, I splash water on my face, then take in my reflection. I’ve lost weight. You can see it on my face. And for all the sleep I’m getting, I have dark circles under my eyes. My face is starting to look like the tattooed half of his.
I step back with a rueful smile and take in my small breasts and concave belly. I think about how weak I am. How easily broken both literally and figuratively.
Bruises have created a pattern of deep blues, purples, and decaying yellows along my arms, my stomach, my legs and hips. I don’t think he’s seen them. It’s so dark in here even his eyes couldn’t penetrate it. I wonder what he’d think if he did see. It’s his fault. All of it. He may as well physically beat me himself because being locked in here without light, without exercise, and with the heightened anxiety of what he’ll do to me, to my family, I’m completely out of sorts to the point it’s becoming dangerous. I turn a little to touch the still painful bruise on my hip, the gash. It’s from the edge of the dresser.
Taking out the first-aid kit, I pour antiseptic onto a cotton pad and wince when I touch it to the wound. I should let it get infected and put myself out of my misery. Deny him the satisfaction of torturing me to death.
But that’s a fantasy. God knows what he’d do to Evangeline if I took my own life. And then there’s Hazel. Could he find her? Would he?
After discarding the cotton and washing my hands, I leave the light on and walk back into the bedroom to sit down on the bed and wait. It’s all I do now. I wait for Antonia to come, happy for the exchange of a few words when she does. I get the feeling she’s not allowed to talk to me, but she does anyway, at least a little.
I wait for him to come. To fuck me. To degrade me. To leave.
My stomach sinks, and my eyes fill with hot tears, but I am quick to wipe them away.
“It’s better than the cellar,” I say again, gathering the blankets up to cover myself when I hear the key in the lock.
“Dinnertime, dear,” Antonia says as she opens the door.
I am greedy to take in the light of the slightly brighter corridor behind her. She must see my face because she starts to close the door but then stops and leaves it open. But her kind nature and pitying looks only make me feel sadder. More alone. More like crying, and I don’t want to cry anymore. Not for him. Not in front of any of them. So, I swallow it down.